


the sins wrought

by lustfulmango



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch, Kidnapping, Other, Overwatch lore, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Violence, Will edit tags as I go, honestly there are quite a bit of headcanons, implied gency, kek, kind of my take on the Overwatch lore, not sure how many relationships there will be, probably won't have much fluff or romance-like situations tbh, still unsure how i'm gonna do this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustfulmango/pseuds/lustfulmango
Summary: Angela "Mercy" Ziegler is a revered doctor and scientist--a young prodigy who caught the attention of the famous (and now infamous) Overwatch. The consequences of diverting destiny's path is upon her as Talon continues to hunt for the members of Overwatch. What will happen when they find her?This is a fic that explores the complexities of the characters as the events of the lore unfold. We'll begin when Genji joins Overwatch, and from there we'll see everything fall to shit. :)))))Aaaa this summary is subject to change~





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Gore
> 
> Hello! Welcome to my first stab at Overwatch fanfiction! I am also fairly new to AO3 so please bear with me. I welcome any and all sorts of constructive criticism--I truly want to improve my storytelling. 
> 
> Like in the tags, Gency will be implied, so I suppose you should read this as a very slow burn. I want to focus more on filling in between the lines of what the characters appear to be like in the game. If there are inconsistencies, please let me know!

                She remembered Gabriel Reyes, his body a mangled image of death itself. The Swiss headquarters for Overwatch had been crumbling all around her, sending smoke and debris into the air. She had been in the underground lab, still untouched by the mayhem. The explosion came from one of the upper floors, the tumultuous rumble racking the entire frame of the building. Without a second thought, she’d already donned her Valkyrie suit and flown with several medics up the building, retrieving the wounded and those less fortunate. The resurrection device she had been developing was notched tightly to her belt, as if she’d thought to use it that day.

                She remembered her eyes watering and the hint of a cough developing quickly into something that shook her lithe frame. The smell was suffocating: singed hair, burned flesh, something coppery that only came from blood. Every face she saw as she pulled their forms out of the white-turned-black rubble and smoke sunk her heart further. She swallowed the scream that threatened to force itself from her mouth, reminding herself that there was time for mourning later.

                When she finally reached the epicenter of the explosion, only the Blackwatch commander was there. He laid on his back in a pool of blood, unmoving on the ruined floor and covered in debris. Skin had either been burned or torn away from the exposed muscles and bone. Some of the black clothing and armor he wore had melded into his flesh. It had taken a few seconds for her to register who it was.

                Blood coated much of his face. Parts of his jaw and teeth showed through the flesh, still raw and red from the explosion. Joints were bent in unnatural ways, bits of white protruding from his body, and there were holes that could only have been made by a gun. The worst part were the eyes, still open but empty, brow furrowed in a heated rage that she had rarely seen on the man when he was living. It was hard not to gag at the broken image of Gabriel’s body. She knelt beside him. Sweat beaded her forehead, but it wasn’t from the heat of the flames or the electrical sparks jumping from broken cables. It was the fact that a man who had so much influence was dead in front of her.

                Familiar memories were trying to surface. Faces that were similar to hers, blue eyes that stared up into nothing, blood everywhere—golden hair accompanied by locks of platinum—

                She swiveled around, searching. Surrounding her, the debris was piling up, falling in small burning fragments from the ceiling. Then—there, something under the rubble. It was blue fabric, torn and stained dark with wet blood. Beside it was a familiar blue-tinted eyepiece, cracked. The medic tried to swallow, but her throat had dried up, whether from fear or heat, she couldn’t tell. She stood and hurried over, flying the last few feet in her haste. Hands that were scraped and bleeding from rescuing people worked once again but with more insistence. After several frustrating minutes, she had to stop. There wasn’t much she could do on her own as she were; the other medics were busy transporting the wounded and dead to safe zones.

                Walking back to Reyes, she fell to her knees, trying to stop her face from crumbling in grief. A hand hovered over the body, as if afraid to touch it. For once she didn’t know what to do. Without Gabriel and Commander Morrison, the backbone of Overwatch was gone.

                _He doesn’t have to be dead._

                She chewed on her lower lip, tasting salt.

                Did she dare play god?

                Her outstretched hand moved to her belt.

                It’s never been tested before.

                Her fingers closed over the device.

                Several heartbeats later, an ashen hand closed over hers.

                Angela “Mercy” Ziegler never regretted saving lives. That day, however, kept her wondering what the world would look like had she not resurrected him.

 

                The first time Angela “resurrected” anyone was when she rescued Genji from Hanamura. There was so much blood she wasn’t sure all of it had come off when she showered at the Japanese branch after the mission. He was only two years younger than she and yet closer to death than any of her colleagues. For the next week she had little sleep, tending to the unconscious young man as he wavered in and out of life. The ordeal was not unlike what she’d been through before as a field medic, but it wasn’t any less anxiety-inducing. He had tubes coming from all over his body to various machines, his vitals displayed on screens in excruciating detail – in all honesty, she had never seen anybody so wrecked as to be called ribbons. She had heard that it was the result of a quarrel with his brother Hanzo, whom she only knew what he looked like thanks to the files Overwatch kept. It was possible that the interactions between Genji and some agents of Overwatch was what lead to the brawl, but who was to know someone could ruin a body to that extent?

                Strike Commander Jack Morrison held a meeting a couple nights after Genji was tentatively declared stable and moved to the Swiss headquarters. Ana, Gabriel, Winston, and other high-ranking officers attended to discuss what to do with the Shimada ninja. Angela had been short-tempered that entire week; even Ana did her best to avoid asking about him.

                The following week, when Genji was well enough to stay conscious for most of the day, Morrison asked to meet Angela. She was in the lab with her crew of medics and scientists, her blonde hair in a high ponytail, a white lab coat over a black sweater and jeans. They were checking on samples and vials, bits of nanobiotic technology stretched out on tables at the far side of the lab. The holoscreens gave the vast room a blue tinted glow.

                “Dr. Ziegler,” Commander Morrison greeted, turning from the huge holoscreen at the end of the room. “How is Genji?” The conference table in the middle of the room projected a hologram globe with dots and indicators. There were little blips of faces here and there, some allies, others enemies. Most were politicians and suppliers—business partners of sorts. The blond man wore the blue Overwatch uniform, sleeves rolled up, eyepiece in place. Ana sat in one of the chairs closest to him, also in uniform. She had a teacup in her hand, poised as if she had just taken a sip. Her long brown hair was down, shot through with slivers of silver, blue military beret sitting perfectly atop her head. She smiled warmly at Angela, but her eyes were apprehensive.

                “Doing well. Better than before,” she replied cautiously, shifting her eyes from Ana to Commander Morrison.

                “His body,” he said, “won’t be able to function normally. Does that still stand correct?”

                “Yes. His brother made sure of that, as I said last week.”

                “I want to talk to him. About the deal.”

                Angela’s lips tightened into a thin line, her features hardening. Morrison never beat around the bush. He had been through much to know the consequences of things like that. “ _What_ deal?”

                “We discussed this already, doctor,” Morrison said. “A body in exchange for his services to Overwatch.”

                The steely silence was pronounced. Her hardened gaze was met by Morrison’s own. His arms were folded, not a hint of amusement nor the good-natured man anywhere to be seen.

                “Commander,” she began, “are you asking me to have an already broken man make a choice that is not actually a choice?” It was hardly a question than a statement. The hand holding her clipboard turned white at the knuckles, while the other curled into a fist. She had strongly opposed the idea during the meeting but had been severely outnumbered. Even Ana hadn’t been on her side. But it figured, since she always stood by the Strike Commander. Her loyalty had never wavered.

                “We’ll be giving him our technology for free. He gets a new life, a new family,” Morrison replied.

                “He won’t have much of a choice,” Angela hissed. “You are asking me to enslave him—“

                 “This will be _his_ choice, Angela,” Ana interjected. The doctor swiveled her disbelieving stare to the sniper.

                “If you refuse, you’re essentially denying him _any_ choice. And,” the commander added before she could reply, “we don’t just give away our tech to any injured patient. We’ll rehabilitate him. He’s useful; we’ll need him to deal with the Shimada threat.”

                She didn’t say anything—Commander Morrison was right about every point. Suddenly, it dawned on her. She knew what war did to people’s hearts. Kindness hardened into something selfish under the guise of “for the greater good”.

                “You knew this was going to happen,” she said. “You set up communications with him so he could be introduced to Overwatch. You had agents keeping their eyes on him—you knew if anything happened I would be among the first ones there—the information about the Shimada clan—“

                “Do not accuse him,” Ana said gently. “We never intended on cyberneticizing him. Our plans were in his interests too.”

                “I didn’t think Hanzo would try and kill him,” Morrison replied gruffly. “I knew relations in the group were worsening. I wanted him to have a way out. He had— _has_ —potential to be a top-notch agent.”

                “You soldiers,” she said quietly, “always think about usefulness. When we are all used up, what will happen then?” The strained anger in Angela’s voice made her accent more pronounced, the _w_ ’s turning into vicious _v_ ’s. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ana’s mouth set in a hard line.

                “When we’re all used up, the war will be over,” the older woman said. Her voice was a wizened mother to a child, stern yet gentle.

                “And _what then_?”

                “Then we’ll live the rest of our days keeping the peace, knowing that the people we love are safe,” the commander said, impatient. “Something I thought you of all people would understand.”

                The verbal slap stung, but rage filled where hurt was supposed to be. Blue eyes glared at blue eyes, but eventually Angela looked away. Commander Morrison did as well, relaxing his muscles. Ana shifted her gaze between the two of them, studying their determined expressions. She knew where they came from, but she stood by Morrison. More than the general public, Ana had people to protect.

                “Enough. You can ask him,” she said. “He will make his decision and you will have another soldier for your cause.” She gave a curt nod to Ana, turned on her heel, and began to walk out of the room.

                “Meet here at 1000 hours tomorrow,” Morrison called after her. “Gabriel will be with us.”

                Genji would not be an ordinary Overwatch soldier; he would be in Blackwatch, the covert ops of the organization. Gabriel would wring every last drop of usefulness from Genji. The Swiss doctor gritted her teeth at the knowledge, disgusted.

                “Yes, sir.”

                Once Angela had left, Morrison let out a breath.

                “I told you she wouldn’t like it,” Ana said, sipping her tea. The strike commander gave an exasperated shake of his head. “She is a victim of war. She doesn’t like for anyone to be cornered like that.”

                “Dr. Ziegler is aware that this was coming sooner or later. Personal feelings should not get in the way of our vision,” he said.

                “You were out of line.”

                Morrison sighed again. “I know.”

                “You could always order her, you know,” came a smooth voice from the doorway. Gabriel Reyes sauntered in, his Blackwatch gear in place, complete with his signature beanie. He had his arms folded, a commanding posture. On the way to the conference room, Angela had barely given him a glance, her face all fury. He figured it had to do with Morrison asking to weaponize the bedridden Genji.

                “That isn’t how I want things to be done,” Morrison said with slight annoyance. “Dr. Ziegler is a gifted scientist and doctor. Furthermore, she treats our soldiers and extreme emergencies. It’s ideal that she cooperate… willingly.” Reyes stopped himself from rolling his eyes. _Typical golden boy._ It was with this sort of ideal that things moved a little slower than he’d like in Overwatch.

                “Maybe she is right to question us,” Ana said quietly. “There are rumors about Overwatch now. You know what the United Nations say about us.”

                Strike Commander Morrison turned to the screen, occupying himself with data of several files. “If we must be monsters to keep the peace, then so be it.”

                Commander Reyes snorted. “ _We_ , you say,” he muttered under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking to the end of this chapter! I appreciate your time. :)
> 
> And now I'm editing Chapter 2 like crazy. There's just so much to say lol. I don't have a set schedule for updating, but I've got about enough material for probably the next two chapters.
> 
> I would also like to warn everyone that things are subject to change as I continue writing. If that happens I'll be sure to let everyone know. Thanks again for reading! :DD


	2. Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of drugs~~

                It had been days before Genji could shake the fog from his consciousness. There was a dull buzzing that didn’t seem to go away, something that made everything feel almost dreamy. The first time he awoke, he hadn’t remembered it. A woman who called herself Dr. Ziegler had told him about the moment he opened his eyes. Apparently, she had never felt such relief.

                He, on the other hand, couldn’t say he felt the same.

                Since being stabilized, Genji realized he could only move the left side of his torso. His other limbs felt as if they didn’t exist. Tubes protruded from his head, chest, and back. He could feel the pumping of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the unfamiliar labored sound of breathing. The first time he looked down at what was left of him, he thought he’d been kidnapped for experimentation, but with Dr. Ziegler filling him in, he quickly realized that wasn’t the case. It hadn’t dawned on him at first, but instead crept upon him at night, when the low-light screens illuminated the scars that ravaged his body. When he felt courageous enough, he took a look under the white blankets—only at night, when the details weren’t so defined.

                He would never again be able to climb walls, trees, columns—never mind that, it was extremely likely he would never walk again. Eating wasn’t a problem so far, since he wasn’t allowed to have solid food. In fact, he was still hooked up to a breathing machine. Talking had been a challenge; his jaw hadn’t healed quite right, even with the technology that surrounded him. He reassured himself from time to time that he still had something, carefully flexing his only working limb, feeling every little joint and muscle tense with what remained of his proud power.

                Angela saw it sometimes, before she entered his room. When Genji realized she was near, he relaxed and made a point to look at her, forcing an aloof smile on his face. She was familiar with patients feeling the way he did, but she never dared pity them. It never helped the situation, and there was far more she could do with her brain and hands than that.

                When Genji could croak out words, the first thing he asked for was confirmation.

                “Doctor,” he said as Dr. Ziegler consulted the screens after the regular checkup. She was startled at first, not expecting him to speak just yet (or at all). “My brother…” It took him a while to get the syllables out, working around the slight pain that resided in his throat. “Did he… do this?”

                Dr. Ziegler’s expression was carefully crafted. He couldn’t tell what she was feeling when she said, “Yes.”

                “Is he…”

                “We didn’t see him when we rescued you,” she said. “I’m sorry.” The apology was soft-spoken. Was it pity? The black-haired patient thought her accent had a peculiar lilt, but he couldn’t quite place where it was from. He hadn’t traveled much when his limbs had worked, and now he felt a twinge of regret. He clamped down on it, saving the little dignity he had left.

                Silence stretched before them as she continued jotting down notes. Genji mustered up some more strength and asked, “Damage…? How bad…?”

                The doctor turned towards him, eyes serious, sending a shiver down his back. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face reality just yet, but it was better to know now.

                “It is as you see and feel,” she said, pulling up his body diagnostics on a holoscreen and pointing at the highlighted parts. “Your spinal cord received damage, paralyzing the lower half of your body, your right arm, and the right side of the upper body. Broken ribs, failed lung, torn muscles…” She dropped her gaze. There was never a way to gently tell someone something like this. “We had to cyberneticize parts of your brain to save you,” she said. The empty space where her voice dropped away spanned for only a few seconds, but it felt like minutes. When she finally dared to meet his eyes, she was surprised to see the unbridled rage that glinted there, not the initial shock or grief that usually appeared first.

                “My brain…?”

                “Your memories and your personality—they’re still there. Nothing is altered.” The reassurance was steady, but she knew there was nothing she could say that would calm him. “It was to save you,” she repeated. Something in her eyes unsettled him, as if she was apologizing. _I had to make a decision,_ said her expression _._ He regretted making her feel that way; she did her job—and well, if he survived the dragons with only some scars and less than half a working body. He looked away, focusing on a spot of the blanket to his right. He felt her eyes on him, as if waiting for something. An accusation? A plea? Perhaps she wanted to answer his questions, reassure him some more—give some quiet to her mind that she did the right thing.

                In a past life, the scars would have meant something else: A trophy of hardship, the struggles of life conquered. Women fought over themselves to be at the mercy of his arms, tracing the tails of dragons with painted fingers and mirroring their smoke with the haze of cigarettes.

                The subtle hum in his head and the feel of the wires swinging slightly as he moved brought Genji back to reality. He raked his lifeless arm with his eyes, taking in the scars peaking from breaks in the bandages, wondering truly if nothing was altered.

                _How ugly,_ whispered a voice in his head, _that you think this of your savior._

                “Thank you,” he managed to say after a while. Dr. Ziegler stayed quiet, unsure if he was thanking her for saving his life or briefing him about his predicament. Either way, his appearance didn’t match his words. His face only darkened as she finished the check-up, dropping bits of conversation here and there to fill the void.

                It never left his face. It was there when he thought she wasn’t looking, and it was certainly there when Strike Commander Morrison, Commander Reyes, and Dr. Ziegler went to visit him.

                “Hello, Genji,” Dr. Ziegler said with the same amount of politeness, but the usual cheer was absent. She didn’t meet his eyes, her arms folded across her chest. Underneath the lab coat, she wore the blue uniform of Overwatch, complete with the white headpiece. Morrison, sun-kissed with golden cropped hair, stood in the middle of the trio, matching shoulder to shoulder with the dark skinned man next to him, swathed in black and gray gear. Dr. Ziegler was a few inches shorter than them, her slouch making her seem all that much shorter.

                It was a little after ten in the morning, indicated by the clock next to the doorframe. His room had no windows, just artificial light and the glare of the machinery. Sometimes he wondered if all patients were subjected to such a dismally bright room, surrounded by the data of body and natural rhythm. Most times he wanted to see the sky again and feel somewhat like he was recovering. It was surprising how unconventional a patient’s room his was, despite the amount of research that went into the medical branch of Overwatch. He wondered if all the wounded were subjected to this sort of high-tech torture. It never occurred to him that he was isolated from the med bay, specially treated by Dr. Ziegler herself.

                “Dr. Ziegler,” he greeted, dipping his head towards her. He narrowed his eyes at the two men. “You are Strike Commander Morrison,” he said carefully, a permanent slur gracing his words. “Commander Reyes.” That name was better known to Genji. He remembered receiving contact from him in Hanamura, asking for information about rival clans and victim groups of the Shimada clan—sometimes even about Shimada clan itself. He and one other was also there that fateful night to rescue him with Dr. Ziegler. He had called her “Mercy” then.

                The bed was tilted at an angle, allowing Genji a sitting posture, a white blanket covering the lower half of his body. The hospital gown was sleeveless, concealing only the bandages around his chest. His right arm lay limp by his side, equally scarred as the rest of his body, the other on the railing by the bed. The wires at the back of his head were splayed carefully behind him, so as not to tangle. They connected upwards into a holoprojector, feeding internal information to the monitor.

                The doctor set to work, checking his vitals and asking Genji the usual questions about his wellbeing, scribbling notes on her clipboard and consulting the holoscreens. After the regular routine was finished, she returned to Morrison’s side, but made a point to avoid looking at the strike commander. He could only sit there, anticipating whatever they were going to say to him. He just wished they cut the suspense already.

                “Genji Shimada,” Morrison began, “of the Shimada clan in Hanamura, Japan.”

                “That is correct,” Genji replied.

                “Your brother, Hanzo Shimada, nearly killed you.” Genji missed the hollowed look in the doctor’s eyes, noticing instead the shift in her posture. Disgust rose in his chest—was she pitying him once again? He forgot she was the first responder on the scene, the one to report to what extent “nearly killed” was.

                “I am aware.” There was a death threat hanging in his voice, uncharacteristic of the once easygoing spirit. “What do you want?”

                “We want you to work for us,” Morrison said. “We’ve observed your skills and you have valuable knowledge about the Shimada clan.” He stopped there. Releasing excess information would be troublesome if he didn’t agree.

                “Skills?” Genji said. “My body…” He paused, the anger that had only begun to plague him surfacing again. “My body is no longer capable of such _skills_.” His knuckles turned white as his grip hardened on the railing.

                Commander Morrison took a step forward.

                “What if we gave you a body that surpasses what you were capable of before?” he ventured. “We can give you back mobility, power, and more. We are willing to rehabilitate and train you.”

                “How would you—fix—me?” There was bite to the question. In his mind, that was the simplicity of the situation. He knew about the prosthetics swarming the black market, the firepower and strength—or the drugs that came packaged in neat little bags, powder and pill that awakened what usually stayed dormant. It was a challenge to the commander that nothing he offered would ever replace what had been taken away from him. In a way, it was a mockery to himself. Would he ever be “fixed”?

                “Overwatch has state of the art technology at our disposal, as well as funding on an international level. It wouldn’t be hard to build you a new body,” Commander Reyes said, stepping forward next to Morrison. “Dr. Ziegler here is head of medical research and nanobiology tech development.” She gave a short nod, seemingly unhappy at the mention of her profession.

                “Why would you go such lengths for a little information?” Genji asked. “It seems… unnecessary.” The calculating look on his face told them he wasn’t so ready to trust Overwatch. For all he knew, he might have escaped the pan only to jump into the fire. And yet, there was a life debt to be owed. Would they call it in? The two men exchanged glances, a breath of uncertainty crossing their faces before Reyes gave a slight nod.

                “The Shimada clan has been causing some ruckus with their... business,” Commander Morrison said. “We want to dismantle their network and power structure. They’ve been causing trouble with our associates in Japan and their network in the States has grown too much to ignore.”

                “You want me to help you take down my own clan?” The words came out more vicious than disbelieving. The commander shifted, unsure how to take it. “My _family_?”

                “They’ve been a danger to innocent civilians for far too long,” the commander replied.

                “You have offered me a position before, Strike Commander. What makes you think I will agree to join now, especially when you are asking me to betray my own people?”

                “Look, _kid_ ,” Commander Reyes said, his patience running out. Genji glared at him. “The Shimada clan betrayed _you_. As far as they and Hanzo know, you are _dead_.” He leaned over the patient, hands placed on the railing so they could see eye to eye. “We mean to involve you in the mission. The extent of your involvement will be up to you.”

                Silence settled in the room as his gaze passed over the three of them. Dr. Ziegler refused to meet his eyes. Commander Reyes had spoken with a finality that meant one thing: _Do you want revenge_? Something dark rolled beneath his skin and made his blood boil at the unspoken question.

                He knew Hanzo would never have resorted to his decisions had it not been for the clan. For all responsibility meant to his older brother, he was just following orders to keep in favor. It had been like that since their father died. And yet, Genji knew that wasn’t quite right. There was no justifying what had happened. That night was carved into his heart—literally—and his body brandished the true meaning of “family”. There was an aching in him that wanted to prove he could return it tenfold. The dragon in him wanted to taste the blood of those who wronged him. It was a call that Genji wanted— _needed_ —to answer.

                “Perhaps we should give him some time to think about it,” the doctor suggested.

                “Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Morrison said. “We can discuss this another time.” He placed a hand on Reyes’ shoulder, but the Blackwatch commander didn’t budge.

                The answer was there on Genji’s tongue. He felt everyone’s attention on him, weighing heavy. He looked at the Blackwatch commander, a black determination in his eyes.

                “I do not need time to think. I will join you.”

                Commander Reyes straightened slowly, flashing a toothy grin that was both triumphant and predatory. “Perfect. Dr. Ziegler will be in charge of making sure you get back onto your feet.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he said and backed out of the room. Morrison gave an approving nod and followed his colleague.

                Dr. Ziegler hovered by the doorway. Genji thought she wanted to say something, but resigned herself against it. With a disappointed sigh, she said, “I’ll come by later to brief you on what the next steps are. Get some rest; you’ll need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading! Welcome back to those from chapter 1 :D
> 
> I admittedly know little about mission stoofs. There might be edits later on to fix the dialogue topic regarding the Shimada clan, kek. I also realized it's going to be a long set up before I can really get to the original parts of my plot. After I cover Doomfist's escape, the story won't really cover much lore afterwards, since the events will be pulled from my own imagination.
> 
> I'm kind of inexperienced when it comes to sci-fi writing, so forgive me if it sounds a little cringey haha.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! Chapter 3 is in the works~


	3. Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree is still young.
> 
> Slight gore warning, references to smoking~~

                Gabriel Reyes headed for the elevator, the knowing grin fading to a smirk. Those who passed by could tell he was in a good mood, and the ones who knew him gave polite greetings. A good majority of Overwatch didn’t know he was the commander for Blackwatch—and a good majority out of that didn’t even know Blackwatch existed. The least amount of people who knew about the covert ops the better it was for both parties; Overwatch could maintain its goody-two-shoes appearance under the golden boy Jack Morrison’s command, and the dirty jobs that needed to get done were left to Reyes.

                It was fitting, Reyes thought as he entered the elevator. He was more of a seasoned soldier than Morrison was, and perhaps less righteous. Back in the day, Jack was teased relentlessly for his naïve moral code—Gabriel joined in then, refreshed at the honesty of new stock.

                “Athena, take me to Blackwatch,” he said.

                “Understood, Commander Reyes,” came the woman’s voice through the speaker. She had a pleasant voice that one wouldn’t expect to come from an AI, much less an AI god program. People saw them as monstrosities with, as their classification suggested, a god-like influence over the world. They were dangerous beings and should be imprisoned somehow.

                That was Gabriel’s job—to fill in the “somehow”.

                And he did it with tact and strategy, always scanning the crowds for potential agents who would contribute to the shine Overwatch already had. Working underground meant living underground, and it was true as Gabriel stepped out of the elevator towards a locked metal door. The lights were dim, washing the concrete walls and floor in a dim red glow. He reached for the eye and face scanners, activating them with the press of a button.

                The scanners blinked green after a moment and the door wheezed as it released air pressure, allowing him to turn the reinforced handle and enter the room. Bright light met his eyes, but his sight readjusted immediately.

                There were a few agents in the common area playing cards. The man sitting on the couch facing the door peered up from under the brim of his cowboy hat, card arm resting on his knee. He had the makings of a beard, neatly trimmed and maintained, his hair matching the brown of mud, skin tan from living under the sun. Two agents sitting in armchairs on either side of the table looked up as well, a young woman and a man, the former black-haired and the latter bald. The last of the four sat in a folding chair with his back facing the commander. He tore his eyes reluctantly away from his hand, a well-known look of poor luck. His face was young, lip pierced and covered in scars.

                “Reyes,” the whiskered man in the hat greeted affably. “How’d recruitin’ go?” The Southern drawl in his speech betrayed his origin if his get-up didn’t: a black broad-brimmed hat styled after a Stetson, a similarly colored cape around his shoulders, the leather gloves next to him on the couch, an empty holster strapped to his thigh, the revolver it was home to resting on the table with the handle towards him. A thin cigarette hung from his mouth, the tip burning a bright orange as he took a drag. Everyone else was dressed in a black tank top tucked casually into their black-paneled gray pants, dog tags hanging from their necks.

                “Fine,” Gabriel replied. “He’ll be undergoing some procedures before he can join our ranks. I’ll be counting on you guys to teach him the ropes around here when he does.”

                A collective chorus of “Aye, sir!” sounded gleefully. While most of them weren’t here completely by their own volition, it was always exciting when someone new came. It meant that their numbers grew even if it shrunk by the next few missions. At least the brotherhood remained. All walks of life were accepted and reformed into something that the agents of Blackwatch could call their own proudly. For them, it was a fresh start—not too different from what they knew, thanks to the underground work and constant stealth. But now, they could say they were impacting the world, in some way or another, thanks to Reyes.

The Blackwatch commander motioned to the hatted man to follow with his head, walking to the back of the room where the offices were.

                “Sorry, fellas,” the man said, readjusting his hat and throwing the cards face up into the pile. “I’ll have t’relish kickin’ yer asses some other time.” He holstered the revolver, stubbed the end of his cigarette in the ashtray, and followed the commander.

                “We’ll get you some day, Jesse McCree,” the woman called after him, “mark my words!” The other two laughed, throwing in their hands. McCree chuckled.

                “Well then, try harder,” he said and closed the door behind him. It was a short walk down the hallway to Gabriel’s office. The door was already open, the commander settled behind his desk, waiting.

                “Have you read his file?” Gabriel asked as McCree sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He took the hat off. Now that he wasn’t playing cards, there was no need to hide his features. The huge screen adjacent to it was offline, reflecting their profiles. There was a locker in the corner, holding Gabriel’s equipment, secured with a code and fingerprint scanner. The office interior matched the rest of Overwatch: a relaxing light-blue color. It sometimes reminded McCree of the maximum security prison he was held in, however short a time it was. The pristine cold look and feel could never match up to the dingy and dank cells of no-name prisons.

                “I don’ needa read his file to know who he is,” McCree said, waving his hand dismissively. “You had me keepin’ tabs on him for a coupla years already. And ‘sides,” he continued, “I was there that night.”

                That night was one to remember. McCree had seen many things in the 25 years he’d been alive—most of them he had done himself. There wasn’t a day he hadn’t lived without a gun under his pillow (if he even had a pillow to sleep on) and one within arm’s reach. He was used to seeing people die, usually by his hand or orchestration, but never was he one to save lives. Now, it was different. Many things had changed since Gabriel found him.

                He remembered trying to staunch the blood, the dark red resisting with a lifeforce of its own, seeping from between the gaps of his fingers. The more he pressed the more he felt the flesh underneath would fall apart, like an overripe orange. There were openings where there weren’t supposed to be, things outside where they were supposed to be inside—and some things were missing, strewn around the dojo in a bloody mess. Mercy was there, as calm as she could be, her hands moving dexterously as she fished packages out of the box she carried. Even with her careful movements, the moonlight highlighted the sheen of sweat over her face. The caduceus staff laid next to her, and McCree remembered shuddering at the thought of what it meant if even the healing beam couldn’t heal the poor guy. At the end of the ordeal both he and Mercy had bags under their eyes, shaken and exhausted by the mission. The night passed with baited breath.

                The trio had been there in the first place because Reyes and McCree were in Hanamura for a recon mission. The internal politics of the Shimada clan had grown volatile since the death of Sojiro Shimada, father to Hanzo and Genji. Too many relatives were clambering to fill the absence of a leader, and with the unexpected death of Sojiro, it was a perfect opportunity. The faction that supported the elder brother Hanzo urged him to take responsibility of the clan, while the opposition challenged him with the same words, almost mocking him for still being so young and incompetent. The demands grew greater and greater over the course of a couple years, finally boiling over into what would have been Genji’s death. Usually they had a larger squad, but the last two months they were in Hanamura, they decided the fewer the better, and who better to accompany Reyes than his one boy wonder?

                Angela, Ana, and Strike Commander Morrison were updated through the comms and live video feed, keeping track of the recon mission throughout the month. When Reyes gave the live report on the duel, Angela immediately turned to Jack and said, “I must go.” Before he could say anything, she’d already suited up and asked Athena for a plane guided to their coordinates in Hanamura. Afterwards, Morrison had waited a few days before lecturing her on what she could and couldn’t do without his approval. She lectured him right back, unable to believe that he would even think to refuse help to the younger Shimada brother.

                “Did you and I watch the same video feed?” she’d demanded. “You can’t be serious about abandoning a victim because of _order_.” McCree had been eavesdropping, hoping to catch the doctor after she was done with her meeting to see how she was holding up. Hearing all the fire still left in her, he felt the tiniest bit relieved.

                “Agent McCree,” Gabriel said, interrupting his thoughts. “Report.”

                “Contact in Hanamura confirmed Hanzo’s now leader of the clan,” McCree said, the information sliding off his tongue. “Had the ceremony a coupla days after the funeral.” They held service almost immediately after the recovery mission, as if the clan foresaw the outcome and had prepared for it in advance. It was closed casket, attended by the entirety of the family. Kids who weren’t old enough to even know the second brother paid their respects, unaware yet of the perpetual inner conflict that commonly plagued crime syndicates. In time, he supposed, they would know. It was inevitable, just as it was for Genji.

                Reyes nodded. There was no other result; Hanzo had fulfilled his duty as heir, and so the opposition to his reign fell silent. It didn’t, however, guarantee his safety in the near future—he had a target painted on his back since his birth. Furthermore, he was an assassin born and bred. There were more than just his own clan wanting him gone. McCree had reported all that Reyes suspected.

                “I want you to keep an eye on Hanzo,” the commander said. “The specifics of your assignment will be sent to your comm. Expect a few trips within the month.”

                “Sure thing, boss. I’ll let my contacts know.”

                “Keep the info to a minimum,” Reyes cautioned, his face suddenly serious.

                “What, you thinkin’ of takin’ him out?” McCree asked warily, his voice lowered. An assassination of their own wasn’t common, but also not out of the question. This was how dirty jobs were done—with hands already stained with blood.

                “No.” Gabriel leaned back. “I want him in Blackwatch.”

                McCree was taken aback. “What?”

                “You heard me.”

                “We don’ need someone like that.” A look of disgust crinkled in the cowboy’s face. “He’s _sheep_.”

                “What’s the difference with you?”

                “’Scuse me?” There had always been a spark waiting to ignite in the young man. Gabriel saw it then when he took him into Blackwatch, and he’d seen it time and time again on missions, especially the ones where bullets flew. Over the years it’d calm down. Now it came back in the way his voice lowered into the back of his throat, the growl of a killer.

                “Go on,” Reyes egged, “tell me what the difference is between you and him.” There was no humor in his face, but the hint of a challenge in a smirk.

                “He killed his own brother. ‘Cause of orders.”

                “If the leaders from Deadlock ordered you to hunt down your own, wouldn’t you do it?”

                “Not t’ my own kind. I took care of ‘em the best I could. Deadlock never did each other wrong.” He looked the commander straight in the eye. “Not like that.” Back then he was allowed to do whatever he wanted. The leaders of the gang praised him for his ruthlessness and ingenuity when it came to heists. They trusted him to see through the barest orders, specifics unnecessary when it came to him. More than once he’d been invited to the meetings himself, only a boy among men who hungered for their next strike. They taught him all they could, those brood of vipers.

                “You didn’t kill the ones who deserted? The ones who stole for themselves? The deadweights who couldn’t make their payments on time?”

                “No—“

                “No,” Reyes agreed. “You’ve done worse.”

                Silence. Sometimes McCree tended to forget who was in charge. Reyes chalked it up to youth, but he never let the cowboy forget.

                “You hurt people,” he continued, leaning forward on his desk with his forearms. He glared at the younger man, whose back once relaxed now ramrod straight. “You smuggled military-grade weapons and contributed to the killing and hurting of innocents. On orders.”

                “Reyes—“

                “Your ragtag bunch of ingrates ran Route 66 so thoroughly Blackwatch had to get involved. We tore your little operation to pieces.” The glare intensified the scars carved into the commander’s face, his mouth set in a hard frown. The bridge overhead Panorama Diner vibrating with the strength of a train, the smell of smoke and gunpowder mixed with that of watered-down sludge the diner called coffee, bullet holes in walls and windows, the sun at its peak in the afternoon blazing down on him and a few others, all leaned against opened crates of firearms and bombs—the scenery of Deadlock Gorge for once pillaged by someone else. McCree could almost feel the wire ropes pinching the skin at his wrists, the hot canyon dirt where his cheek lay. “If it weren’t for us you’d still be out there, terrorizing people. Adding to your—“

                “I’m doin’ somethin’ about it now,” McCree said, voice raised unintentionally. His gaze dropped, eyes narrowed and brows knitted together. The commander couldn’t tell what it was that contorted his face so, whether it was guilt or agony, or both.

                “And now your own gang hates you for it.” Reyes watched as the cowboy stared stonily at his feet. “So much for taking care of each other.”

                Silence.

                “Did you forget why you’re here?” It was a simple question, all anger absent from his voice. It was cold and cool, like the light blue of the walls. _I didn’t drag your sorry ass here for this,_ was what the commander was saying.

                A beat passed, and then, “No.” Their eyes met again, golden brown against near black. Determination was set in his face, what with the way his mouth hardened into a line, one corner turned down at the slightest. It made him look young, not the hardened agent the cowboy had turned into.

                “You remember what you said yourself.”

                “Yes.”

                “The sins wrought—this is how you’ll atone for them.”

                The commander had agreed to personally mentor him when those words left his mouth. He remembered the pride in his eyes. The nerves at the confession turned into something warm and steely in his chest—still a boy trying to grow a beard. Reyes had taught him so much more than Deadlock had. It was what made him who he was now.

                “Yes, sir. That’s what I said.”

                “Good. Now get out.” Dismissive and harsh.

                McCree stood to leave, quiet except for the sound of rustling clothes or the soft metallic click of the revolver in its holster. His eyes never once left the commander’s face, but Reyes was done lecturing him. He’d reminded him why Blackwatch worked so well; they weren’t just prison rats or brothers in arms. They, too, were sheep. Commonplace criminals who happened to catch his eye. Servants to uphold the good without showing themselves. The shadows that once plagued the streets, and now they were a force to be reckoned with.

                None of them should forget who— _what_ —they were. There was a reason why they were Blackwatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! This was a scene I came up with as I was writing then-chapter-3-now-chapter-4. Sorry it took so long, McCree's a little hard to write for me lol. And I got stuck near the end. I had a vision of it, just couldn't write it for the life of me. I couldn't decide how much of an accent I wanted to write into his dialogue. 
> 
> Chapter 4 is kind of almost done, I just need to edit the crap out of it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji is on the road to recovery, and Mercy is suffering (as always).

                It had taken about a month and a half for Genji to regain motor control. With the help of Dr. Ziegler’s nanobot healing and the coaxing of a couple therapists, the newly-made man sported a shuriken-loading right arm, a pair of legs that mirrored the strength he once possessed, and what seemed to be an extremely advanced version of a pacemaker keeping his heart in check. Tubes ran throughout his body, sending nanobots to help with the changes that seemed never-ending. His spine was fixed and modified, cords and wires hanging from the back of his head where steel plate met his face. Dr. Ziegler and Winston had reinforced his sight, hearing, and jaw, returning his speech to normal from the awful slurring that he’d never thought to be rid of. Synthetic corded muscles wrapped around the steel frames of his new limbs, naked to boast their durability.

                His new body was the work of Dr. Ziegler, Winston, and Lindholm Torbjorn. The trio and their respective crews worked tirelessly for a week straight, setting up a prototype that the bedridden man could get used to first before one with more substance could be produced. The learning curve was steeper than he imagined, thinking that perhaps mobility would come easier to someone of his kind. The Shimada clan dealt with illegal prosthetics and augmentations, and he knew some members indulged in them willingly to gain a bit more physical power. His father never gave in to the temptation and neither did Hanzo. Genji, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if he’d give up a limb for a new one—now he had no choice.

                The joints on his cybernetic arm moved seamlessly when he folded his fingers into a fist, the digits mirroring his flesh hand almost too perfectly. His feet were built for balance and quick movements, the toes twins as they flexed against the ground. He was ashamed to admit he couldn’t remember the flaws of his own toes, if one were crooked or straight, if the skin calloused here or there, the roughened heel of his sole. Something that he never gave much thought about haunted him when there was some quiet in the day and the doctors saw to other patients.

                Re-learning how to function gave the cyborg more trouble than he cared to admit. Sometimes when he stumbled, he thought himself weak, and when he dropped a plate or a mug he looked at the mess almost forlornly. Dr. Ziegler said he’d been improving when he came for his appointments, soaking in the warm yellow beam that came from her Caduceus staff.

                “Don’t feel bad,” she told him on more than one occasion. She said his progress was the fastest she’d ever seen. “Soon you’ll be good as new.” The hopeful tone of her voice didn’t convince him, and her choice of words pricked at his heart.

                Every upgrade he allowed himself to be put to sleep, the darkness so familiar now that he forgot the fear of death.

                The first time, he’d broken out in cold sweat, breath shallow under the mouthpiece. He hadn’t meant for his red eyes to betray his fear.

                Dr. Ziegler had put down her tools, gloved hands resting on the table next to his flesh arm.

                “You don’t have to do this,” she said through the mask. “If you want, we can stop here.”

                He had to swallow before he could speak.

                “No,” he replied, hating the weakness in his voice. “I cannot stop.” He made himself meet her eyes. He thought he could see heartbreak behind her clear blue eyes. Maybe he hated her in that instant—for not knowing what it felt like to have her body torn ten different ways, to be betrayed by a loved one—to be left behind, cast aside, and deserted. She wouldn’t know what rebuilding felt like.

How could she? How dare she?

                She slipped a hand into his, the glove rubbing against the calloused skin rife with scar tissue. It was an action of comfort, but it disgusted him all the same. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, the fear giving way to something more like anger. The little things the doctor did that could be interpreted as kindness of her heart he took as pity: the tiny smiles at half-hearted jokes, the backrubbing when he vomited from treatment and pain, the little bits of news here and there about Overwatch to distract him from his condition—he’d welcomed it and still the bitter feeling came.

                Sometimes he’d return the favor and talk about Japan when she’d asked. They skirted around Hanamura and the clan, but there were many tales of ignorant youth he could pull from. If there was still something he could do, it was to make people laugh.

                “I understand,” the doctor said after a moment. “I will begin as soon as you are ready—”

                “I am ready now.”

                It was the same tone he’d used when Reyes asked him to join Blackwatch. The absoluteness of his voice was stone cold and void of argument. Determination or anger was not something that could describe the way he articulated the consonants and vowels. The doctor felt a slight shiver run down her spine at his acceptance. Once, she knew how that felt.

                Angela motioned for the anesthetist to start with a nod of her head. She’d tucked every strand of her platinum-blonde hair in her surgeon’s cap and made doubly sure that everything was prepped and ready. She met his glare head-on, taking in the wicked scars left from the battle, wanting to let him know that she will watch over him. She thought perhaps he was memorizing the details of her face, if only to hold her accountable if something went wrong. Of course, what could he see behind the mask but the dread of his attention in her eyes?

                Once his eyelids began to droop and his eyes rolled back into his head, she thought she felt a squeeze from his hand before it went limp.

                Every time the procedure finished, he awoke to Dr. Ziegler in blue scrubs stained red and the occasional bright splotch of nanobiotic fluid. Sometimes she had a crease on her forehead, as if worried he might not wake up, and other times she wore a weary smile, glad to be done. All those times he wasn’t sure what to feel, especially in the couple days he took to recover from the upgrades. There was always a terrible aching all over, not to speak of the emptiness he felt as he was confined to a hospital bed yet again.

                 Training with Lena Oxton—call sign Tracer—helped relieve much of his tension. He was told she was a gifted pilot around 18 years old, afflicted with chronal dissociation thanks to a malfunction with the Slipstream experiments a few months before Genji came to Overwatch. The spry girl was full of energy when they met, dressed in the standard Overwatch training jumpsuit, brunette hair cut short and swept to the side, her mouth always in a goofy grin. Even then, when they shook hands, he swore her fingers phased through his for just a second. Had it not been for the device strapped to her chest, she probably wouldn’t have been able to clutch his hand with such vigor. She giggled often and genuinely, finding everything and anything to be fascinated about. The hyper-intelligent gorilla Winston was there, awkward with his hulking frame that still seemed so shy and small as if he wasn’t sure how to present himself. To be fair, Genji didn’t quite know how to address the talking animal either, still wrapping his mind around the idea of time-traveling, let alone his body.

                “Nice to meet ya,” Lena had said, showing teeth in her wide smile as she met his gaze through the face plate. “I’m sure we’ll get along handsomely.”

                “I agree,” Genji replied. Despite his circumstances, he was surprised to find he meant it. She reminded him of himself before he’d died. She seemed different from the commanders, all cheer and content with her place in the world. Would he one day be as bright as her?

                He remembered realizing Dr. Ziegler watching him, the subtle signs of relief on her face when she found him smiling at the pilot’s energy.

                Tracer sparred with as much energy as she did just blinking around base. He liked trailing after her figure with his heightened senses, tracking her every move like a hound after prey. Sometimes he itched to dash after her, wires and cords trailing behind him, a hand outstretched to barely tag the chronal accelerator harness on her back. But he restrained himself, hoping that the eagerness would subside and movement wouldn’t come as a treat. He could barely hold the embers at his fingertips, the writhing wont to release from his body—a serpentine form folding over and over itself inside him with impatience.

                The beast hungered most when Genji was gifted a new pair of swords. It sang through the steel when he held it in his hand, imported from his homeland complete with tradition and care only Japan could give. Torbjörn refused to craft such fine weapons when his crass personality matched his work method, and instead sent for a contact in Japan. The next few nights the cyborg would sit cross-legged in his assigned room with the swords laid out in front of him, the shorter below the longer, gleaming red where the metal ridges caught ambient lighting reflected off white walls and wooden furniture. The color scheme matched the red and black of his own body, the circular plating above his heart glowing the same shade as his swords. There were mornings when he was even afraid to touch them, catching himself before even his mechanical fingers could wrap around the hilt. Those days he ached to fit the grooves made for him, the dragon’s beckon whispering in his ears.

                Angela had known about the dragons that ran rampant in the Shimada bloodline. She knew the power they held, filled with the intents of their container, their own siblingship unrivaled when it came to destruction. Jack knew as well, more worried about the chaos they could create. But Gabriel—Gabriel was fascinated with the potential. He’d always had an eye for things like that.

                “Had that smile on his face,” McCree said during downtime. His squad had returned from a reconnaissance mission in Hanamura, spying on the Shimada clan authorities. He nursed a hot cup of coffee in his Blackwatch uniform (the hat was on the table), while Angela blew on tea as they sat across each other in one of the common areas in the Swiss headquarters. “You know the one,” he added, “like a kid on Christmas. But sinister.”

                Angela chuckled, cradling her cup with both hands. She still had her immaculate lab coat over the usual black turtleneck, this time with loose charcoal pants. Her hair fell freely about her shoulders, relieved from their place at the back of her head.

                She knew exactly the smile the agent was talking about; more than once she’d caught glimpses of his face during a warzone, omnics and buildings smoldering in heaps on either side of the fray, gunfire glinting in the honey brown eyes of the commander as he shot back at the enemy. It was the tight grin—baring teeth more than anything—with eyes furious and brows drawn low. Blood and oil darkened his skin, covering him in a camouflage if the black hadn’t stood out in the afternoon skies. Sometimes in the early dark of morning, she’d see Reyes cleaning his shotguns with a serious face, only to rally the troops with that devilish expression. His soldiers followed him with no hesitation, grinning back at him with the confidence brought on by their leader. Despite herself, she’d grin too, looking backwards as he stormed into battle while she tended the injured. The patients always had stories to tell, calling Reyes brave and unlike anything they’d ever seen. Once, she’d admired him for the cause they fought—striking back at the omnics and liberating humans.

                “What do they look like?” Angela asked, dripping with curiosity. She leaned forward just a bit, her eyes narrowed slightly in the way a detective would examine some clue.

                “They glow like moonlight, real pretty,” he replied, sitting back in the armchair. His hand searched for the box of cigarettes in his pants pocket, flicking one up in a quick motion. The doctor cleared her throat, throwing a stern look his way. “Right,” he said sheepishly. “No smokin’, I gotcha.” Making a show of putting the pack away, he relaxed in the chair again. His fingers drummed on the arms of the chair, wanting to find some relief in habit.

                “Are they real dragons?”

                “Yep. Come from them tattoos they’ve got. Like magic. Didn’t believe my eyes the first time I saw ‘em, but they’re quite the sight to behold.”

                “With scales and claws? Teeth? Wings?” It was McCree’s turn to chuckle, charmed by the older woman’s excitement.

                “No wings. They’re eastern dragons—looks like the snakes ‘long Route 66, if you’ve ever seen, but better.” He took a sip from his mug. “Magnificent.”

                She saw it for herself the night Hanzo killed Genji. There was no awe or admiration, just horror and the hollow feeling as she witnessed the older Shimada brother draw his sword silently. Genji hadn’t been facing the tiny camera drone Reyes and McCree brought with them, kneeling on the floor of their family dojo with his head bowed. It seemed as if he’d been praying, but one couldn’t be sure. His sword was next to him, untouched.

                They were indeed magnificent—blue dragons spiraling from the katana with open jaws greeted the peaceful image of Genji. They moved with an ethereal energy of their own, different from Hanzo’s stone expression. There was a life that seemed more than what they were, desiring the flesh of their kin as if that’s what they existed for. Genji never had a chance to strike back.

                It only took one blink of an eye before it was over. Then Angela was in a small aircraft, praying she’d make it in time, counting her supplies over and over again in case there weren’t enough. When she landed, McCree was there to escort, pale as the dead. Reyes had a calculating look on his face, as if analyzing the situation that had taken place. She’d shoved past the both of them and ran towards the unmoving figure, nearly shouting for McCree to help. Then all that graced her was blood spurting and leaking from holes she’d never seen, as if Genji was a sinking ship and she the captain who refused to go down. She wondered if McCree saw the terror in her eyes— _not again, not again, not again_ running through her mind like it’d happened before. Except instead of familiar faces there was only a man she didn’t know.

                She remembered turning to Gabriel, wanting to say something, but the look on his face stopped her. She hadn’t been sure if it was the trick of lighting or the building hysteria, but there was that grin after many years—as if he’d found gold.

                In due time, Reyes came by the doctor’s office a couple of months after Genji began his training. It was afternoon and there was a lull in the medical bay for once. Life-threatening missions had come to a steady slow as the organization focused more on reconnaissance—keeping an eye on the world’s status. They were simply watching.

                She was sitting at her desk, mesmerized by the documents in her hands. Her attention was so thoroughly burrowed in papers that she completely missed the heavy footfalls of Gabriel’s black combat boots. They were always a tad too loud for his liking, but it seemed he never distracted her enough when he dropped in.

                He rapped on the doorframe, two articulated knocks with his knuckles. It took a second for the doctor to pull her gaze away from the documents—patient files, he presumed, as she set them down lightly.

                “Gabe,” Angela greeted with a touch of a smile. That merited one of his own, lip quirking upwards beneath his beard, at the forgiveness from the incessant anger. In private, the old strike team called him ‘Gabe’ affectionately, and since Angela’s introduction to Overwatch, she had taken warmly to him. At first, anyway. The day off must be one well-spent for her to be in such high spirits in his presence. He almost missed her youth, when she hadn’t been sold too deeply into Jack’s Overwatch. She’d been more selfish then, working with a vengeance. “What brings you here today?”

                He walked in, slow and sure as always. For his age, Gabriel was a charismatic man—arguably moreso than Jack. He had a song to his speech that wasn’t as easily emulated in the strike commander’s straight-forward manner, and rarely did he speak lies. Back before Jack was appointed strike commander, he’d cracked jokes more often, his expression not yet sharpened by the role he played now. It was little wonder how he managed to convince the people he picked up like stray cats to do his bidding, much less join what was deemed the good side. Gabriel was a man made to lead. Everyone could see it.

                “I’m here for Genji,” he said. If he hadn’t known Angela, he’d have thought he imagined the twitch of her lip, a crack in the façade she wore as a doctor. He thought it was truly a shame they couldn’t reach an understanding about the future of the world—besides, wasn’t she in Overwatch to save lives? He’d make sure the cyborg did just that—among other things.

                “Right,” she replied. She knew this day would come. Genji had been doing well in his basic training and physical therapy, quick-witted and quick-footed. His footsteps no longer had the slightest warning, always the invisible man that hid behind his cybernetics. Sometimes she didn’t want to admit what she enabled, having to remind herself that she saved him and that was what mattered. Some nights his mutilated form haunted her sleep, and some nights she thought his new cyborg body came to kill her. It was then she resorted to the whiskey, careful to drink enough so that it didn’t show the next day. Not that it mattered—her body had gotten more resilient since the experimental days from years past. The fatigue never seemed to show on her face.

                “How soon until he can operate as an agent?” Gabriel asked, lowering himself into one of the armchairs in front of her desk.

                “We’re still working on some modifications,” Angela said, her voice still lighthearted. “It’ll likely take a while.”

                “There’s no time left. We need to make a move now.” Whatever warmness Gabriel possessed had disappeared from his features. It was business now, and Angela hated that part of him. He could be ruthless when he thought he needed to be, even amongst old friends and colleagues. Once she had thought him caring and kind in his own way. The days of her Overwatch internship seemed so long ago.

                “I will not give consent only to have him risk his life,” she protested. “He’s not ready.”

                “Seems to me he’s doing fine, Doc.” She glared at him, mouth thinning into a hard line. “He’s been asking me things about the missions. The clan isn’t going to disappear overnight, and since his funeral, things have gotten more complicated.” His smoky voice almost seemed to purr as he unloaded the piece of information. “The faster the operation gets done, the better it is for all of us.”

                She didn’t reply for a second, her hands folded gently, but her fingers were white at the tips. “I don’t want him to… get consumed,” she finally said.

                “I’ll take care of him, Doc,” Reyes said, looking her in the eye. “I know you think you’re similar—maybe that’s why you’re protecting him—but this is what we do. Break a few eggs, and such.”

                “You’re going to use him to kill people,” she said quietly.

                “He was raised an assassin. It’s in his blood. This time, he’s going to help save the world.” He cocked his head, giving her a sly grin. “Isn’t that what you want?”

                Angela looked away, trying to hide the disgust on her face. He didn’t even try to deny the heinous acts of Blackwatch. Moreover, there was that dreadful feeling of allowing it to happen. Genji was a living weapon no matter where she looked. A better version of a killer. And she’d helped.

                “We’ll see about his progress. Right now he’s still undergoing procedures and upgrades. You’ll break him if he becomes active now.” Her tone was clipped and concise, as professional as a doctor should be, yet her expression betrayed her.  

                “I’m looking forward to the news. It’d be a shame if he’s not ready soon. Wouldn’t want such a valuable specimen to go to waste.” He rose from the chair, towering over the younger woman. She glared daggers up into his face. He didn’t need to know her to see the wrath that had taken hold. The guilt of ruining her day weighed heavy in his chest, surprisingly, but he maintained composure as he stalked towards the door.

                “Have a good rest of the day, Doc.”

                “Likewise, Commander.”

                When he was gone, Angela lowered her face into her palms, hunched over the surface of her desk, sighing deeply. The ache to work rose in her, but there simply wasn’t any to be done. Today, the doctor was alone in her thoughts, begging the question why everyone had become such strangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry I took so long on this one. I ended up rewriting the original chapter because I realized there needs to be something in between this and the next scene(s). I want more angst to be shown kek
> 
> I'm also worried it might be moving too slow lol. I don't think I ever intended it to be quick-paced but still yknow i want to get every last drop of pain.
> 
> I'm not sure if I'm doing a good job at showing what the characters are feeling. I especially think Gabriel is extremely complicated (only due to the fact he hasn't gotten much lore out) but anyway. I wanna get into McCree-Genji interactions already ;_;
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!
> 
> Also, if there are any mistakes pls point them out I kinda didn't really edit it cause I've decided to write instead of sleep lul


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